


Coach Class

by igrockspock



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-08
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2018-02-12 06:43:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2099502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/igrockspock/pseuds/igrockspock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The worst thing about the fall of SHIELD is that Melinda May has to travel on commercial aircraft.  In coach class.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coach Class

**Author's Note:**

  * For [katmarajade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katmarajade/gifts).



Melinda May knows that the fall of SHIELD has many negative consequences for the world. The unchecked proliferation of evil, for example. And yet, as she wedges herself into a narrow seat next to a shrieking toddler, she finds that she doesn't much care if drug lords run amok and aliens invade the midwestern United States. The real problem is that the fall of SHIELD means that she has to fly on commercial aircraft. In coach.

In the beginning, she and Phil had made an arrangement. 

"I don't fly anywhere," Melinda had said. "Unless it's in my own plane."

The trouble is, you can't really get landing clearance at commercial airports for a mysterious custom luxury jet, and they can't risk landing the Bus at private airstrips of unknown provenance. Not that they can afford much jet fuel anyway. Flying their own plane is now a luxury reserved for the most dire emergencies.

When a mysterious artifact surfaces in Dubai, Tripp volunteers to pick it up.

"No sweat," he says with a sidelong glance at Melinda. "Some of us don't mind traveling with the common people."

Melinda ignores the comment and wonders if she should force Phil to consider for the one thousandth time whether Tripp is a member of Hydra. Then again, if they have that discussion and she prevails, _she'll_ have to fly thirteen hours to Dubai (fourteen, actually, now that everything has to be rerouted around Ukraine).

The trouble is, Tripp has forgotten certain rules about cabin baggage. For example, you can't bring knives. Or hockey sticks. Or scissors. In fact, if you should have various versions of all three items scattered about your luggage and strapped to your person, you'll go to jail. Then it will take some mighty fancy hacking and two frantic phone calls to Maria Hill to secure your release.

" _Don't_ call in any more favors for the next six months," Maria says, her face wibbly and blue over their secure connection. "And no favors ever for incompetent employees."

Phil looks at Melinda, and she knows she has no choice. She is nothing if not a competent employee. And if she's a competent employee still trying to work her way back into Phil's good graces? Well, looks like she's flying to Dubai. In coach.

The morning of her flight, Melinda comes downstairs clad in black leather. She figures that if she looks scary as fuck, the other passengers might not talk to her.

"Could you at least _try_ to look like a civilian?" Phil asks, shaking his head.

Melinda would like to shoot him down with a death glare, but she knows he's right. They'd bought her a last minute open return ticket. That alone would single her out for extra security screening. Looking like an assassin would be too big a risk.

At the airport, she slumps in her seat. She feels oddly vulnerable in Skye's hoodie and loose-fitting jeans, even though she knows there's no one in the terminal who could take her in a fight. The security screening had been -- well, better not to think about it. They'd swallowed her story about a dying uncle in the UAE easily enough, but her sports bra had set off the milimeter wave detector. Ward -- she refuses to think of him as _Grant_ \-- had given her a Victoria's Secret gift card once. (In retrospect, it ought to have been proof that he was evil.) For reasons Melinda refuses to contemplate, she had actually used it. She'd spent half on slinky black underwear and the half on a truly fabulous sports bra. It had an inner layer with an underwire and an outer layer that closed with a zipper, trimmed with a thick band of elastic that didn't budge even when you were nailing your former lover's feet to the floor.

Melinda permits herself a small smile. She _loves_ that bra. Except at airport security, where it apparently looks like a bomb.

"Do you _seriously_ think I'm going to bomb the plane with my tits?" she had asked the terrifyingly earnest TSA agent who called her aside for a patdown.

The girl giggled. "We don't say the b-word here!" she exclaimed. She was carefully inspecting the underside of Melinda's breasts with the back of her hand.

"Look, it's a sports bra. I'd be happy to show you." Melinda gestured to the privacy cubicle just a few feet away, but the girl only giggled again.

"We couldn't ask you to do that!" she exclaimed, and went on groping for what felt like an eternity. Melinda tightened her hands into fists and reminded herself that she couldn't ridicule Tripp's arrest if she killed a TSA agent.

After the special screening and the sweltering jet bridge, sitting down on the plane is almost a relief. _Almost_. The toddler beside her shrieks again, and Melinda studies it carefully. It appears to have a great many Peter Pan toys, and its mother seems to possess an unnatural immunity to its screams. Well, no matter. She can solve that problem.

She leans over to whisper into the brat's ear. "Every time you scream, a fairy dies. Do you think you killed Tinkerbell yet?"

Melinda leans back into her chair, breathing slowly in and out in the resounding silence. She might actually survive this flight.

Then the woman next to her pats her hand. "Have you been saved?" she asks, smiling beatifically.


End file.
